Swordfight
by mofos
Summary: Theon/Jon slash


Steel rang against steel, then, after a brief struggle, the blades separated with a scraping sound.

Though he favoured the bow, Theon Greyjoy was more than adept at using the sword, Jon had to admit. Raw pain pulsed in his arm from deflecting the recent onslaught, and he could only hope that Greyjoy was feeling the strain just as keenly.

"Proceed."

At Ser Rodrik's command, the ward and the bastard tightened their fingers on the hilts. Warily, they circled each other, well aware that even the smallest mistake might provide the opponent with an opening to end the duel.

Jon searched closely for any signs of weakness or fatigue. Submitting to Greyjoy, during a mock fight observed by the master-at-arms, Robb, and a group of squires, was a loathsome prospect, so he had to find a quick way to disarm the ironborn. Swiftly, he lunged forward, sweeping down his weapon, but Theon sidestepped him and fended off the attack.

Nevertheless, Robb praised his brother's tactics. "That was a good one! You almost got him!"

"Almost? Oh, please, Stark. Had he swung any wider, he would have lopped off your head. Besides, Snow, you move about as gracefully as a pregnant cow."

The nonchalant dismissal of Jon's swordsmanship was belied by the minuscule tensing of Greyjoy's shoulders. Scarcely had he delivered the sarcastic remark, than the ward was slashing at Jon, intent on breaking through his rival's defence.

Prepared for the strike Jon was, yet its force still had him fall back a step. Theon smirked in satisfaction and whispered, "What's the matter, princess? I thought you were supposed to dazzle me with your superior skill with the blade. Now, you wouldn't like to let down Ser Rodrik … or dear Robb, would you?"

And he pressed on, driving Jon against the stable wall. Locked thus, with naught save blunted steel between them, Greyjoy could hear clearly the pained grunt that had escaped Jon.

"Did that hurt? I'm terribly sorry, my lady. Don't cry, though - your brother will kiss it all better, I'm sure."

Fury overtook Jon at the obscene suggestion, and, in an instant, Greyjoy was pushed away, the swords clashing rapidly as the combat was resumed. If previously they had been only sparring, currently the bastard and the ward seemed determined to rip each other apart.

Worried murmurs rose in the little crowd of spectators; the contestants, however, paid them no heed. Nimbly, they danced away from the incoming strikes, countering thrusts with parries, their movements so fast as to appear a blur.

Rage, which had allowed them to exchange blows with such ferocity, had also rendered the two adversaries reckless. Jon was the first to use this lack of prudence to his advantage: a deft kick sent Greyjoy sprawling in the dirt. From there, all Jon had to do to assert his victory was point his blade at Theon's throat.

"That's what you get for yapping nonsense about me and Robb, Greyjoy."

Alas, he didn't count on the ward to take hold of his sword, wrench it away from the slackened grasp, and unbalance him in the process. Jon made to sit up, but it was too late: Greyjoy was upon him, pinning him flat on his back.

"Yapping? I'm not your dog, Snow. And why mere jests have you so riled up?"

Fortunately, Jon was able to free one arm and hit Theon on the jaw. A knee planted to the ironborn's stomach worked nicely as a further distraction, giving Jon the chance to twist away, then use the momentum to trap Greyjoy under his body.

Not that they remained in this position for very long. More punches followed, whilst Jon and Theon were rolling on the ground, neither eager to yield. Vision blurred at the edges, fingers dug into flesh, laboured breaths and curses left the bloodied mouths.

It was when Jon was lying atop Greyjoy, and their groins accidentally brushed together, that a startling realization penetrated the blinding anger: both him and the ward were half-hard. About to utter another insult, Theon must have noticed the embarrassing changes as well, for his expression promptly transformed from smug to alarmed.

This glimmer of uncertainty, an emotion rarely associated with the proud heir to the Iron Islands, induced Jon to roll his hips ever so slightly, just to see Greyjoy squirm some more. Madness buzzed in his veins as he watched Theon swallow thickly and lick at the split lip. Gods …

Without thinking, Jon lowered his head. Yet, before he could sink his teeth into Greyjoy's bruised mouth, a fist rammed into his temple, effectively dispelling the strange trance. All at once, sanity reasserted itself: a wave of shame doused the remnants of wrath and arousal alike.

"Let him go, Jon!"

He allowed Robb to drag him away from Greyjoy. Having pushed himself up, the ironborn gave the brothers a long, assessing look, and his eyes, not so long ago confused and terrified, were again full of scorn.

The ward held Jon's gaze, smiling unpleasantly. "Better stay away, bastard, unless you want me to count your teeth for you."

That night, Jon dreamt not only about smashing those laughing, crimson-stained lips, but also claiming them with his own. There, in the maze of hazy visions, his blood sang with equal parts aggression and lust, while he heard the stream of jeers turn into breathless moans and felt his enemy … _his lover_ ... reach for him with impatient fingers.

_It never happened,_ he told himself firmly upon waking up.

Even so, forbidden heat pooled low in his belly, every time he and Greyjoy crossed swords.


End file.
